


Burning Bright

by ignaz



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Clubbing, DJ Otabek Altin, Drunkenness, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 04:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12646377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/ignaz
Summary: He’d rather die than admit it, but this is only the third club he’s ever been in, and the first two were while trying to track Otabek down in Spain. Not that he couldn’t go to a club if he wanted to—he’d just never wanted to. Clubs are for losers and drunks and assholes, for people like Victor who have too much money and too little sense. Or at least that’s what he thought before Otabek. But Otabek isn’t here to get shitfaced and dance. He’s the guy on the stage, the puppet master, the god ruling over the crowd. It’s different.Eight weeks after Barcelona, Yuri visits Otabek in Almaty.





	Burning Bright

**9:15am to 4:10pm | 3h 55m**  
**Pulkovo (LED) to Astana Intl. (TSE)**  
**Air Astana 138**

**7:45pm to 9:25pm | 1h 40m**  
**Astana Intl. (TSE) to Almaty Intl. (ALA)**  
**Air Astana 672**

* * *

“Did you sleep on the plane?”

Otabek had waited until they were on the road back to Almaty proper to ask. At the airport, he’d been quiet, greeting Yuri with a small but genuine smile, a soft “Hey,” and a warm hug before hoisting Yuri’s roller suitcase into the trunk of his car like it weighed nothing.

In the passenger seat, Yuri looks out the windshield and lies.

“A little,” he says. He’d tried, at least. He’d never had trouble sleeping on planes before, or anywhere else for that matter, but this time he couldn’t do more than close his eyes for a few minutes.

“How about food? Did you eat? We have time to grab something quick at home while we drop off your stuff.”

“Nah, I’m good. I ate in Astana.” A protein bar and some water, but it’s the middle of the season and he’s on a meal plan, and there had been nothing at the Astana airport but buttery cakes and three-day-old sandwiches.

“Okay. I’m sorry for the rush and not giving you any time to settle in, it’s just—”

“I don’t need to settle in,” Yuri says. It comes out sharper than he means it to. But he doesn’t need special care and handling. He’s nearly sixteen. He’s traveled all over the world. He tries again, softer: “I’m fine.”

He chances a glimpse at Otabek and sees him nod once. “Good.” Then Otabek looks over at him and smiles, briefly, before turning his eyes back to the road. “I’m glad you made it. I’m glad you’re coming tonight.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Yuri says, trying to sound like he doesn’t really care. “Especially since you didn’t invite me to the last one,” he can’t help adding.

Otabek chuckles. “Not that _not being invited_ stopped you.”

“Fair enough,” Yuri says, grinning.

Otabek looks over at him again, still smiling, and Yuri feels some of his nerves dissipate. It’s going to be fine, he tells himself. He’s got this.

* * *

It’s his first time in Kazakhstan, his first time visiting Otabek since they became friends at the Grand Prix Final. Yuri looks out the window as they drive down unfamiliar dark roads lit only by streetlights and by the head and tail lights of other vehicles. The road signs are all in Russian, at least. He can’t see much beyond the road itself, no scenery, although he knows Almaty has mountains. Otabek has shown him pictures.

So instead of watching the scenery, he watches Otabek in the changing light and shadow of the car’s interior, trying not to be obvious about it. It’s been two months since they’ve seen each other. Of course, Yuri’s seen him on Skype, but it’s different seeing him in person. Otabek’s hair has grown longer. His face looks the same: calm, serious, concentrating on navigating them safely through the Saturday night traffic. He’s still hot. Hotter in person.

Otabek reaches to turn up the volume of the song that’s playing. “Okay?” he asks, voice raised enough to be heard over the music.

“Perfect,” Yuri answers.

* * *

Yuri doesn’t know exactly what time the plane landed, but he guesses it’s about an hour before they get to Otabek’s house. The drive is quiet, with just Otabek’s music, but it’s a good kind of quiet, one that feels comfortable and light. Though not nearly as cold as St. Petersburg, Almaty is still chilly in February, and secure in the warmth of Otabek’s car, with his friend next to him, Yuri feels like he could easily drift off into sleep.

They drive up some hills, dark except for their headlights, and pull in at a gated driveway. As they approach, a light over the closed garage door goes on. Otabek stops the car outside the garage and leaves the engine running.

“I just need to grab some stuff, and then we can go,” he says. “You mind if we do the tour later?”

Yuri is thankful he doesn't try to apologize again. “I don’t mind,” he says.

“Okay,” Otabek says. “Want to help?”

Yuri jumps at the chance to make himself useful. He follows Otabek through the front door into the house, Otabek still carrying his suitcase like it weighs nothing, so apparently helping doesn’t include hauling his own shit. Otabek sets the case beside the door, out of the way, as Yuri takes in the sight in front of him.

The gated driveway was a clue, and the front entry hall confirms what Yuri has suspected: Otabek is rich. He’s maybe the richest person Yuri knows, apart from Victor, and Lilia. The house is certainly bigger than Victor’s or Lilia’s, though to be accurate they both live in condos and—until recently—alone. Now that he’s back Almaty, Otabek lives with his family. Yuri’s never met any of them, not even on Skype, but he’s heard about them. He guesses he’ll meet them on this trip. Probably not this instant, though. The house is quiet and dark, lit only by lamps here and there. To the left of the front door is a room with some white sofas. To the right, a dining room with a table big enough to seat eight people, ten if you squeezed. In front of him a wide staircase goes up to the second floor. He can actually see it go all the way up—the ceiling in the front hall is two stories high.

“Yuri?”

He jerks his head in Otabek’s direction. Otabek is in the dining room, where a bunch of electronic equipment Yuri doesn’t recognize is sitting on the table, more of it piled in Otabek’s arms. “Can you grab that?” Otabek asks, nodding at one thing Yuri does recognize: a laptop bag. “And help me with the door?”

Yuri closes his mouth, which has fallen open. “Sure,” he says. He slings the strap of the bag over his shoulder.

They make their way back to the car and load up, then they’re on the road again, winding back down the hills in the darkness. Otabek has the music on again, something slow and kind of sexy with a lot of bass and a female singer, and he’s comfortable enough to have just his right hand on the wheel while the left taps out rhythms on the door just below the window. Sometimes he glances over at Yuri, who tries not to be caught staring.

“So,” Otabek says at last, breaking the silence between them, “technically this club is 18 and up, but they don’t really check IDs, and I’m just going to say you’re with me.”

Yuri sucks in a breath. _With me_. “I guess you’re a pretty big deal?” he asks. He means it to sound teasing, but not really, because he’s known Otabek was a _pretty big deal_ since the night he’d found him DJing in Barcelona, and that was all the way in Spain. In his own hometown? The _Hero of Kazakhstan_ can probably get them in anywhere. _With me_ , Yuri hears again in his head.

Otabek, eyes on the road, quirks that half-smile he has and shakes his head. “It’s not like that. But I’ve played here before, they know me. Besides,” he adds a moment later, “you’re a pretty big deal yourself.”

Yuri’s stomach does a little flip and his face grows hot. “Me? Maybe if we were going to a skating rink. In Russia.”

Otabek’s smile gets bigger and he looks at Yuri for half a second before turning back to the road. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he says. “You’re _Yuri Plisetsky_.”

It’s not the first time Otabek has said his name like that out loud. He said it that first day, at Park Güell, with the kind of awed reverence people usually save for saints and heroes and people like Victor. Hearing it again now, in a dark car on a dark road in Kazakhstan, Yuri feels the same as he’d felt hearing it while overlooking Barcelona at sunset. He doesn’t know what the feeling is called, but it shakes something inside of him. He’s stood atop podiums with gold around his neck and felt less pride than he does right now, sitting in this car next to Otabek, hearing his name like that in Otabek’s voice.

“Well,” Yuri says, “just know that if I get thrown out, I’m blaming you.”

“If you get thrown out, I’ll throw myself out with you.”

“Deal,” Yuri grins.

“But they’re not going to give you any trouble. You’re hard to say no to.”

As quick as it came, Yuri’s grin disappears. That part, at least, isn’t a bit true. People say no to him all the damn time. Yakov. Lilia. Victor and Katsudon. The Figure Skating Federation of Russia. Otabek should know that better than most—after all, _no_ is more or less what he said to Yuri that day at the Barcelona airport, wasn’t it?

Yuri looks out the window in silence for the rest of the drive.

* * *

Otabek parks the car in a small lot behind the club, in an empty spot that could have been reserved just for him. Maybe it was. He doesn’t say. Together they unload equipment and carry it to the back of the building. Before they get within four meters, Yuri can already hear the pounding bass reverberating through the walls, and once they open the door, the sound is deafening. He has to yell to be heard.

“I didn’t know you played this kind of music!” he shouts.

“Yeah!” Otabek shouts back. “I play everything!”

“You never sent me any!” Over the last eight weeks since Barcelona, Otabek has sent Yuri nearly a dozen tracks he's been working on, mostly in the same vein as “Welcome to the Madness.” Yuri has loved each and every one of them to various degrees, and not only because they mean Otabek is thinking about him. But none of them sounded like this.

The music gets louder the closer they get to the action, until they're behind a heavy black curtain that seems to separate the back area from the stage. Otabek leans in, close enough that Yuri can feel the heat of his breath and smell his cologne when he says, “I wasn't sure you'd like it.”

Otabek's closeness in the dark, with the music throbbing all around them, is thrilling. It's heart-pounding. It's almost enough to make him forget how fucking tired he is after traveling all day and not being able to sleep on the plane. It's not even 9 o’clock back in St. Petersburg, but he’s been on a grueling training schedule and normally by this time of night he’d be winding down for the evening, not out at a club. But he rallies, and from deep inside him, some demon makes him lean in to Otabek’s ear and say, “I like everything you do.”

In the dark, it’s hard to see Otabek’s face, but Yuri is pretty sure that’s a smile he sees before Otabek squeezes his shoulder. “Come on.”

* * *

They get Otabek’s gear stowed, and then Otabek shows Yuri around, as much as he can with the dance floor crowded with people. Otabek’s hand never leaves his shoulder.

“The bar is there,” Otabek says. One of the people behind it catches his eye and gives him a wave and a nod. Otabek waves and nods back. “Just tell them you’re with me and they’ll get you anything you want.”

“I don’t drink,” Yuri says.

Otabek gives him a funny look. “No, I know. You’re fifteen.”

Yuri feels his stomach drop. _Almost sixteen_. It’s on the tip of his tongue, but he knows how childish it would sound, how childish he must already seem to Otabek. _How old are you now?_ Otabek had asked him back in Barcelona, when Yuri had half-begged Otabek to take him along to the club. Yuri hadn’t thought it mattered, but it did, and he’d watched Otabek speed away from him on the bike, ditching him like a bad date.

He starts to say something else, he isn’t sure what— _that’s not why I don’t drink_ , maybe, or _it’s gross_ , though he’s only tried beer, and only the one time, when Victor left one unattended. It _had_ been gross. But Otabek is already steering them away, pointing out the toilets and the front door and the coat check, where Yuri allows Otabek to help him out of his coat, just to feel Otabek’s hands on him again. Yuri’s gloves are already shoved into the pockets. They’re the fingerless ones he wore for his exhibition skate in Barcelona, the ones Otabek had taken off—one of them with only his teeth. Yuri wonders if Otabek remembers. Maybe he doesn’t ever think about it.

“I need to get ready,” Otabek says, his face close to Yuri’s, half-yelling to be heard. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Yuri yells back at him. “I’m fine. Have a great—set, or whatever.”

Otabek’s smile in the flashing club lights is dizzying. “You can come up close to the stage if you want, but you don’t have to. I’ll find you after. Okay?”  


“Okay,” Yuri says, giving Otabek a little shove. “Go already.”

Otabek smiles at him one last time before slipping away into the crowd.

Left alone, Yuri shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels. Apart from Otabek, he doesn’t know anyone here. He doesn’t even really know what people _do_ in clubs, besides dance, and this isn’t the kind of music he’s used to dancing to. He’d rather die than admit it, but this is only the third club he’s ever been in, and the first two were while trying to track Otabek down in Spain. Not that he couldn’t go to a club if he wanted to—he’d just never wanted to. Clubs are for losers and drunks and assholes, for people like Victor who have too much money and too little sense. Or at least that’s what he thought before Otabek. But Otabek isn’t here to get shitfaced and dance. He’s the guy on the stage, the puppet master, the god ruling over the crowd. It’s different.

Yuri shakes his head and opens his eyes wide. He’s hungry and tired and his brain is doing crazy things.

The bar nearby is three people deep. That’s the other thing people do at clubs—drink. So that’s out. And it’s not because he’s fifteen ( _going on sixteen, dammit_ ) or too innocent or some shit like that. If anything, it’s the opposite. He’s seen enough of what it does to people. To his father. To Mom. To Victor, who when he drinks turns into twice the irresponsible idiot he usually is. He's seen Yuuri Katsuki, a gifted skater and Yuri’s sorta-idol, turn into a drunk slut on a dozen glasses of champagne, dancing on poles with Giacometti and throwing himself at Victor like a whore.

Yuri is better than that. He has to be.

Two women brush past on their way to the dance floor, drinks in their hands. One of them glances back, tossing her hair over her shoulder and giving him a quick, curious once-over. Maybe she recognizes him. Maybe she’s wondering what kind of weirdo just stands around in a club with his hands in his pockets. Maybe she’s wondering what someone _his age_ is doing in a club in the first place. He’s grown a centimeter since last year, and his face is less babyish than it used to be, but he doesn’t look 21. He doesn’t even look 18. ID check or no, if he tried to get a drink, they probably wouldn’t serve him.

Maybe he’ll get something, though, just to hold in his hand, just to stop people from staring at him like he’s a dumb kid. Something bubbly to help settle his stomach, which is protesting at his having skipped dinner. Something with caffeine to help him wake the fuck up. Something to show Otabek that he belongs here ( _with me_ ), that he knows how to have a good time.

It had worked that way for Katsudon, sort of. The way he’d arrived at the Sochi GPF banquet a total sad-sack loser and ended it dancing and smiling, with Victor following him around like a puppy. And yeah, he’d looked like an idiot, with his tie around his head and his pants who-knew-where, but now Victor’s _engaged_ to him, so obviously Katsudon had done something right. But Victor’s a pathetic old man. Yuri doesn’t think Otabek would be too impressed if _he_ got drunk and started swinging around a pole and humping everyone in sight.

That’s the third thing people do at clubs: hook up. And that’s not happening for him, either.

The music changes, and Yuri realizes his mind is wandering again just as a cheer goes up around him. He blinks rapidly to shake the fog out of his thoughts and looks toward the stage, where Otabek is starting his set. Yuri doesn’t understand what Otabek is doing, but he looks cool as hell doing it, and the sounds coming from the speakers are interesting, like a computer or a toy keyboard over the thump of the bass. More noises join in—a piano, a cello, a violin, something static-sounding that he can’t identify. The people on the dance floor are shifting with the music, at first fluidly, easing into the movement, then harder as the crowd swells and the tempo picks up. People dance alone and in couples and in groups, women with women, men with men, women and men together, energetic and wild. The bar now is nearly empty.

The song changes, merging seamlessly into the next one, which sounds _dirtier_ somehow, even though there are no words yet, so how can it be dirty? But the bass hits Yuri right in the solar plexus, and lower. On the dance floor, couples move closer together, grinding on each other. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. He could dance to this, maybe. It looks like sex, and god knows he’s spent enough time thinking about sex. Nobody else seems to have any problem dancing to this music, and he bets none of them have had the kind of dance training he’s had.

He swallows, his throat dry. Now would probably be the time to get that drink.

The bartender who waved at Otabek earlier notices him right away and slides over. “What can I get you?” he shouts to be heard over the music.

Yuri just stares at him. He hasn’t given it a single thought. Up close, he can see that the bartender’s hairstyle is similar to Otabek’s undercut. He’s got one ear pierced and almost a full sleeve of tattoos up one of his bare, muscled arms. He needs a shave. He’s hot, in that way that makes Yuri feel like a little kid again. And he’s starting to look impatient.

“Vodka,” Yuri blurts, before he can think better of it, and then adds, “and soda,” because he might be Russian but there’s no way he’s going to drink straight vodka on his first attempt. Not in public, anyway.

The bartender nods and turns away, and Yuri exhales his relief and tries to figure out what the hell just happened. He ordered vodka. _Him_. He hadn’t been thinking about getting something alcoholic at all. Ginger ale, maybe. A Coke. But _vodka_ is what had come out of his mouth, and the hot bartender with the sleeves hadn’t even blinked.

It’s fine, he tells himself. He’s just going to have one drink. He’s not about to turn into Yuuri Katsuki, or Victor. Or his parents. He’s going to have this one drink, to loosen up and perk up and enjoy himself.

His drink arrives in a little clear plastic cup, with a slim red straw and a wedge of lime resting on top of the ice. He gets his wallet out of his back pocket, but the bartender waves him off. Because he’s here with Otabek. He’s not just some kid. He _belongs_ here. That’s his friend up on the stage. He’s _with the DJ_ , and it’s his first night in this city, and fuck it—he’s going to make it count.

He takes a sip through the straw and has to immediately hide his grimace. It’s a lot more vodka than soda, which he guesses is the bartender being generous. He can’t believe people actually drink this stuff, _without_ the soda, and _like_ it. He’s tempted to throw it out, to dump it in the toilets or “forget” it on one of the ledges that line the wall of the club. It was free, so it’s not like he’d be out anything.

He hangs onto it instead. He’ll just sip at it when he gets thirsty. And maybe with the drink in his hand he’ll draw fewer stares.

Up on the stage, Otabek is wearing headphones, his brow furrowed in concentration. He’s as focused as he is when he skates, serious and determined and sexy. He looks out at the crowd of people for a moment, as if searching for someone, but then turns his eyes back to his laptop.

Yuri takes another sip from his drink. The taste isn’t as awful now that he knows what to expect. And he definitely feels better holding it and having something to do besides stand around awkwardly like some loser.

The song changes again, this time into something harder, something _dangerous_. It sounds like it should be the soundtrack to some kind of science fiction movie with a lot of running and laser gunfights. The dance floor writhes and rolls. Yuri realizes after a moment that he’s started to sway to the beat and stops himself. If he’s going to dance, he’s going to _dance_ , and show all these fuckers what’s what. And he can’t very well dance with an almost-full glass of vodka in one hand.

He takes a longer sip through his straw. The vodka taste isn’t so obvious now. The bartender must not have mixed it very well. Now it’s almost pleasant. He licks the stickiness off his lips and drinks again. The cup is only about a third full now, and he can move around without spilling it, so he takes a deep breath and carries it, and himself, out to the dance floor.

The music changes again, going back to something fun and sexy, but still fast, still intense. He can feel the bass in his chest, like a heartbeat but stronger. His hips are moving, following the rhythm. It comes naturally, although he’s sure the years of studying his form in the mirrored walls of ballet studios are helping, even subconsciously.

He finds himself in the middle of a crowd of dancers, some paired off and some alone. They shift to make room for him, checking him out as he checks them out in return. Some of them can really dance, their movements sensual and confident. He admires and then mimics them, the roll of the hips, the ass, the thighs. It’s hotter on the dance floor, in the press of bodies all moving together. He holds his mostly empty plastic cup to his forehead, letting the condensation cool him. Then he drinks from it again, bypassing the straw this time. It’s cool and refreshing, and he lets a few slivers of melting ice slide into his mouth.

The dance floor is dark, lit by flashing strobe lights that cast everyone in shades of blue, green, and purple. Yuri looks up toward the stage, sees Otabek still hard at work, and smiles. He’s beautiful up there—Yuri’s friend. His best friend. His cool, sexy, older best friend. The boy who’d saved him from death by fangirls, who’d taken him all around Barcelona on a motorcycle, who’d helped him choreograph a whole new routine in a single night, and who’d given him the music for it, too. The boy who’d stood on the ice with Yuri, and taken Yuri’s glove off with his teeth.

The song changes again, and he’s hit by a wave of tiredness, stronger than before. The shift is so sudden he nearly trips over his own feet. Thirty seconds earlier he’d been a dancing god, bathed in neon light, and now he’s barely able to stand on his feet. He puts his cup to his mouth again, but it’s empty. When the hell did that happen?

He pushes his way clumsily through the crowd of dancers, back the way he came. He’s thirsty again, and he has a bad taste in his mouth. Once he’s free of the throng of people, it’s easier to walk, though he still stumbles a little in the dark.

“His” bartender is gone, and there’s a different guy in his place. Yuri sets his empty plastic cup on the bartop. The new bartender clears it away without a word.

“Vodka,” Yuri says. “I’m a friend of Otabek’s.”

The bartender lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. A moment later, a shot glass full of clear liquid is set in front of Yuri. An identical glass appears in front of the bartender.

Yuri manages to control his expression, but just barely. The bartender raises his own shot glass expectantly, so Yuri does the same.

“To Otabek Altin,” the bartender declares, clinking his glass against Yuri’s. Then he downs the shot.

Yuri hesitates for only a second before following suit. This time, he can’t stop the twist of his face as the alcohol hits his throat, nor the cough that follows.

The bartender sets his glass down firmly and laughs, a deep, booming sound that can be heard clearly over the music. Yuri sets his own glass down, somewhat less firmly, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks,” he says. He brushes his hair out of his face. He should have pulled it up. Strands are sticking to the back of his neck.

The music segues back to sexy. Refueled and re-energized, Yuri heads to the dance floor. He dances his way toward the middle again, dodging two guys who try to grind on him. No, the only guy he’ll let grind on him tonight is Otabek, and Otabek doesn’t want to grind on him.

He runs his hands through his hair again, pulling it away from his hot and sweaty skin. He feels loose-limbed and sexy. He can dance like a pro. No wonder guys want to grind on him. Just not the right guy.

But he’s not going to think about that. His blood is pumping faster, and although he’s too warm, he feels good. The music is inside him, making him feel good, making him move his feet to its rhythm. It’s everywhere, washing over him like the neon lights. Otabek is on the stage, controlling the music, creating the music, so in a way it’s like Otabek is surrounding him, moving him, inside him like a heartbeat.

The music takes on a kind of funk sound, and another cheer goes up around him. Two girls next to him start to dip their hips lower and lower to the ground in time with the beat. One of them catches him looking and gives him a grin. She holds her arm out, beckoning him to join in. To hold that position she must have hamstrings of steel. Yuri smiles back and tries to imitate the movement. It’s like doing squats, but sexy. When he starts to fall, the girl grabs his arm and steadies him.

“Whoa,” she says loudly, laughing and leaning toward him so he can hear her better. Up close she looks a little like Yuuko Nishigori, but with smaller tits. “You can really dance.”

“So can you,” he shouts back.

Her friend leans in next. She’s pretty, too, curvier, with red hair that’s obviously fake. “You can dance with us if you want,” she offers.

Yuri considers it. They’re nice, they can move, and they don’t look like they want to grind on him. Not that he would mind if they did. They’re just girls. “Cool,” he says.

And just like that, he’s got a posse. The girls are experts at this, demonstrating moves Yuri never would have thought of. He mimics them, and they encourage him, sometimes stopping him to show him the correct form or enveloping him in a loose supportive hug.

“Let’s take a break!” the one who looks like Yuuko shouts at him.

“Okay!” he yells back, and then they’re moving, weaving through the crowd, collectively dodging elbows and avoiding the stares of men who want to join their crew.

“Shots!” the redhead shouts when they’re at the bar, and before Yuri knows it, there’s a new shot glass in front of him, there’s a shot glass in his hand, the shot glass is at his mouth and he’s swallowing down the fiery liquid and slamming it back onto the bartop.

“Again!” he yells, and his girls laugh. His glass is refilled, and this time the bartender does the shot with them, toasting to friendship before downing the drink.

Yuri chokes down the shot in the name of friendship. Friendship with the bartenders, who have been so nice to him. Friendship with these girls, who he loves, whose names he’s already forgotten. His friends back at home, Victor, and Yuuri—fuck, he wishes they were here now—and Mila.

And Otabek. His best friend. Otabek, who’d stood at his gate at the airport in Barcelona just 24 hours after biting Yuri’s glove off in front of thousands of people, with Yuri waiting expectantly in front of him in his sexiest off-the-shoulder tee and with shiny gloss on his parted lips … and had stuck out his hand.

Yuri slams his shot glass down. “Let’s fucking dance!” he yells, and the girls cheer, and they make their way back to the dance floor.

In the throng of people, with his new friends, he’s more alive than he’s been since he stood on top of the podium in Barcelona. He’s not tired or hungry anymore. He’s floating. He’s electrified, he’s music, he’s sex. He’s not a baby who needs to be tucked into bed at 9:00, who needs time to _settle in_ , who can’t handle himself. He’s not some kid who’s too young to take to a club, too young to kiss.

The club lights are almost blinding. He shuts his eyes to block them out, raises his arms in the air. He stumbles a little and rights himself.

One of the girls, he’s not sure which, touches his arm and gets close to his face. She’s saying something to him, but he can’t make it out over the music. He shakes his head and smiles at her. It makes him dizzy.

She pulls him into a hug, puts her mouth next to his ear, and shouts, “ARE YOU OKAY?”

He arches his neck, letting the lights and music wash over him. “I’m a soldier,” he says, though it comes out sounding wrong, all blurry somehow, so he says it again, louder: “I’m a soldier.”

* * *

_Yura_ , he hears through the fog. It’s the first clear, unmistakable thing in what feels like hours. _Yura_.

He tries to answer, but moving his mouth is too hard. “Mmm,” he hums instead.

_Yura. Oh God, please ..._

The voice sounds panicked and scared. Yuri has to say something, has to reassure the voice that he’s okay. He sticks out his tongue to wet his lips, opens his mouth, and immediately vomits.

He’s so surprised, he doesn’t have time to turn his head or lean forward or do anything to stop it, and the puke spills over his chin and down the front of his shirt before he even realizes what’s happening to him.

 _Shit_ , he hears, and then: _Okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you._

“O—“ Yuri starts to say, and then clamps his mouth shut tight in case he’s going to puke some more.

Otabek’s voice is clear now. “Let’s go,” he’s saying. “Come on, up we go—“

Yuri realizes he’s been sitting as Otabek gets an arm under his shoulder and hauls him off the barstool. They stagger together, Yuri tripping over his own feet and Otabek half-dragging him, until they reach the men’s room, where Otabek props him against a wall and starts the faucet in one of the sinks.

“‘M sorry,” Yuri chokes out, one hand covering his mouth. Tears are streaming down his face. “‘M sorry—“

“Shh.” Otabek wets a paper towel and mops at Yuri’s shirt. “It’s not your fault. Here, wash your mouth.”

“No,” Yuri moans, because it _is_ his fault, this is 100% entirely his fault, and it’s so humiliating he wants to melt into the floor and die. But he does let Otabek guide him to the running water, and he splashes it over his face and into his mouth, swishing it around and then spitting into the sink.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” Otabek is saying. “I shouldn’t have left you alone—“

 _Shut up_ , Yuri wants to say, but he’s afraid he’s going to throw up again, or maybe cry. He swishes and spits more water, then leans back against the wall again, his head hitting it with a dull thud. He immediately slides to the floor, landing on his ass between the sink and the trash can.

Otabek follows him down, throwing the mass of soiled paper towels into the garbage as he goes. He puts his hands on Yuri’s face, turning it so that Yuri can either look at Otabek’s frightened, furious expression, or close his eyes. He opts for the latter.

“What did you take? Who gave it to you?”

Yuri opens his eyes. It takes him longer than it should to process what Otabek is asking, and when he figures it out, his mouth crumples. He shakes his head.

“Tell me,” Otabek demands. “I need to take you to the hospital.”

“ _No!_ ” Yuri grabs Otabek by the forearm. Even disoriented, he can tell that it’s a very nice forearm. “No,” he says again. The idea of it is terrifying. His fangirls would find out in days, if not hours. Yakov and Lilia would have to be called. He’d probably never be allowed out unsupervised again. The humiliation alone would kill him.

And besides, he hasn’t taken a damn thing, except too many shots of vodka. Like a rank fucking amateur. Like a _kid_.

“Yuri, this is serious. You need to see a doctor.”

“ _No_ ,” he says again. “Please, Otabek, I—“

He almost wishes he _had_ been drugged. At least then there would be someone else to blame. He’d still get in trouble, maybe even big trouble. Yakov would probably skin him alive either way. But at least he’d be able to point the finger at someone and something else besides his own stupidity. At least Otabek wouldn’t know what a loser he is.

“I don’t need a hospital,” he finally manages to say. “Please don’t make me. Please.”

He closes his eyes again so he doesn’t have to see Otabek’s agony, to see him trying to figure out the right thing to do.

For a while, Otabek says nothing. “Please,” Yuri begs. It’s more of a whimper.

Otabek swears in Kazakh again. “Come on,” he says, taking Yuri under the arm again and guiding him out of the toilet.

His vision is swimming, so Yuri closes his eyes once more. Otabek sets him by a wall with a ledge, which he leans on heavily. He locks his knees and wills himself not to collapse again.

He hears arguing, Otabek raising his voice, but the words are all garbled. He might drift off, because suddenly Otabek is draping a jacket over Yuri’s shoulders and steering him away again.

The cool air outside gives him a jolt of wakefulness. He pulls the jacket closer around himself, although he can’t quite manage to get his arms through the sleeves.

He blinks, and the next thing he knows, he’s in a car. Then the car is moving. The window feels blissfully cold against his burning cheek.

He closes his eyes.

* * *

Yuri wakes up in a room he doesn’t recognize. It’s a bedroom—a guy’s bedroom, looks like—neat, with a dresser, a desk covered in computer equipment, and a door.

That’s about all he manages to figure out before he has to close his eyes again, because he has never, ever been in this much pain in his entire life.

His mouth feels and tastes like something died in it. His head _pulses_ , like his brain is swelling beyond the limits of his skull. He puts a hand to it and makes a horrible, shameful noise, one he doesn’t even recognize. He wishes he was dead.

He hears movement in the room and his eyes track automatically toward it. About three feet from where he is, there’s a little girl sitting in a wooden chair.

“Are you awake?” she asks.

Yuri slams his eyes shut and recoils at the sound, which he knows is at a perfectly normal volume but which sounds like a deafening screech. Even recoiling hurts. The slightest movement has him whimpering with pain.

The girl seems to understand. “Sorry,” she says in a stage-whisper. “Beka said to be quiet.”

 _Beka?_ He tries to focus on the girl, but the pale daylight in the room is so, so bright.

“I’m Zarya,” the girl says, gesturing to herself. “I’m Beka’s sister. He asked me to watch you while he went to shower and change clothes.”

Yuri blinks and finds it easier to focus. The girl is maybe eight, though she talks and acts like she thinks she’s older. She has dark hair and dark eyes and is dressed unremarkably. Something about the shape of her face is familiar.

“You’re Otabek’s sister,” Yuri manages to say, or at least moan.

“And you’re Beka’s friend Yuri. Beka said you were sick. Did you come from Russia last night?”

Yuri closes his eyes against the flood of words. His stomach rolls and his head pounds. “Water,” he croaks.

“Oh, right. It’s right here.” When he openes his eyes again, the girl is holding a water bottle out to him. She has to practically put it in his hand before he can take it from her. Then he has to figure out how to get its contents in his mouth without moving his head or body. He settles for shifting, ever so slowly, until his head is elevated just enough from his current position that he won’t spill the water all over himself. After he’s taken a few small sips, proud of himself for not dribbling water everywhere, he shakily closes the lid and then clutches the bottle close, afraid that if he lets it go he’ll never find it again.

“I saw you at the Grand Prix Final,” the girl says. “You were really great. Beka’s great too, of course. I think he should have beat that JJ guy at least. Don’t you?”

“Urgh,” is all Yuri can manage, letting his eyes slip shut again. The mention of what happened with Otabek and JJ at the Grand Prix Final is enough to make his stomach lurch again. Really, JJ alone would do that.

Yuri hears the door open and footsteps. “Scram, Zarya. Quit bothering him,” Otabek says, and Yuri opens his eyes again in an instant. Otabek is hustling the girl out of the chair and towards the doorway.

“Okay, okay,” she complains, “some thanks I get,” but she goes willingly enough. Otabek shuts the door behind her.

The next minute, Otabek is holding the chair, dragging it closer to the bed where Yuri is. He’s clearly just come from the shower, his hair damp and messy, wearing a soft-looking black tee and sweatpants. He hasn’t shaved. He looks fantastic. Yuri feels like a corpse.

“Hey,” Otabek says, softer and lower than Yuri would have expected. As he moves closer, Yuri catches a whiff of his shampoo and breathes a little deeper. “How are you feeling?”

Otabek’s face is close to his, and the look of concern on it is staggering. Yuri tries to think of something, anything he can do to take that awful look off Otabek’s face. Maybe some kind of joke, to make Otabek smile—and to make light of the stupid, mortifying thing Yuri did. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could he have done this to himself? To Otabek? Yuri’s eyes burn, and he realizes he would be crying if he wasn’t completely dehydrated. So at least he’s being spared that humiliation.

“Bad,” is what he finally says, though it’s completely inadequate to describe how he’s actually feeling, and it does nothing to make Otabek’s worried expression go away.

“Drink some more water,” Otabek suggests. He reaches, awkwardly, for the bottle Yuri is still clutching in his hands, as if he’s going to raise it to Yuri’s lips himself, but then stops himself. Instead he reaches for the bedside table. “You should take these.”

He picks up a small plastic bottle, shakes two white tablets out into his hand, and carefully passes them to Yuri’s trembling one. Yuri swallows them down with another few sips of water.

He thinks about the girl who was there a minute earlier and what she’d said. _Beka. Beka._

“Beka,” Yuri says. Even in his pathetic state, he doesn’t miss the surprise that crosses Otabek’s face—or the pleased look that follows.

“That’s what my family and close friends call me,” Otabek says. “You can call me that, too—if you want.”

Yuri wants. He wants so much he couldn’t even put it into words when he wasn’t dying and barely able to string a sentence together. But he’s also replaying the events of last night, which he remembers all too clearly, most of them at least. It’s so fucking unfair. Katsudon forgot everything _he_ did in Sochi; why does Yuri have to remember?

Otabek, cleaning him like an infant, scraping him off the floor, hauling him around. The music, stopped. Unintelligible arguing and cursing. The words didn’t make sense to him then. They do now.

“Beka,” he says again. His voice is trembling and he hates it, but he has to know. “Don’t lie. Did … did I get you fired last night?”

Otabek ducks his head for a second, and that’s all the answer Yuri needs. When his face is visible again, he’s stroking the stubble on his jaw and neck with a rueful expression. “I didn’t really like playing that club anyway,” he says, a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth.

Yuri wants to close his eyes and at the same time never close them. He never wants to stop looking at Otabek, at his perfect face, but he desperately wants Otabek to stop looking at _him_ , and from here, barely able to move for the nausea and pain, there’s nothing he can do to hide from Otabek, which only makes the nausea and pain worse.

“Beka,” he chokes out, “I am so, so sorry.” His throat is raw and tight and his eyes prickle again. This is a nightmare. This is a _nightmare_. What the _hell_ had he been thinking? He can’t believe the Yuri from less than 12 hours ago. He could have ended up in the hospital, or worse. He could have shamed his country, destroyed his skating career, ruined Otabek, lost everything he’d worked for. He’d acted disgracefully, gone against everything he knew and everything he believed in, and for what? So Otabek would think he was cool? So Otabek would want to make out with him? _Great fucking job, asshole._

He’s not crying, but he’s damn close. He’s ruined everything—not only did he publicly humiliate himself in about the stupidest way possible, he got Beka _fired_ in the process. Otabek is never going to speak to him again. He wants to die.

“Yura,” Otabek says, his voice soft and serious again. “It’s not a big deal. There are lots of clubs in Almaty. And everywhere else. It’s just one gig.”

“You’re just saying that,” Yuri mumbles, “to make me feel better.”

“No,” Otabek says. “I’m not. I mean it. I do want you to feel better, though. It’s my fault—I never should have left you alone in that place—”

“ _Stop!_ ” If he has to hear Otabek blame himself again for Yuri’s own stupidity, he really will start bawling. “Stop,” he says again, when it seems like Otabek might go on talking. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. Nobody slipped me anything. Nobody gave me anything. I just drank too much because it felt good and it made me want to keep dancing and stay awake, because I was tired and I didn’t want you to think I was some dumb kid who needed a nap, okay?”

He wants to sound defiant. He wants to sound like he doesn’t care. He wants his tone to say _fuck you_ while inside he’s saying _I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me, please forgive me_. Instead he starts crying halfway through his speech, just like that little kid he doesn’t want Otabek to think he is, and by the time he’s done he can barely get the words out through his sobs.

He starts to hide his face in the pillow, then remembers that it’s probably Otabek’s pillow and he shouldn’t be getting snot all over it. So he covers his face with his hands, and when that does nothing to sop up the tears, he pulls at the collar of the tee shirt he’s wearing until it’s covering his face. The tee is probably Otabek’s too, because it’s not Yuri’s, but he’s already slept in it so he might as well go on ruining it. Hopefully it’ll wash.

Otabek is quiet for a long time. He’s probably trying to figure out how to get Yuri out of his bed, out of his borrowed shirt, out of his house, and out of his life with the least amount of pushback. Yuri is scheduled to stay here for a week. Maybe he can get a hostel for the rest of the nights, or move up his flight back to St. Petersburg. Maybe he should just climb one of Almaty’s mountains, find a cliff, and jump off it.

Eventually, he gets his breathing back under control. When he dares to pull the shirt back down and open his eyes, Otabek offers him a tissue. Yuri takes it.

“Was this your first time drinking?” Otabek asks. He doesn’t sound like he’s judging Yuri. But he also sounds like he already knows the answer.

Yuri blows his nose in the tissue and nods. Otabek nods, too. “How much did you have?”

Yuri half shrugs and shakes his head. There were three drinks, maybe four. Even if he knew for sure, how could he tell Otabek? It’s probably an embarrassingly small amount. He’s not going to add to his humiliation by admitting what a lightweight he apparently is.

“Yura,” Otabek says, very seriously, “it’s okay—everyone drinks too much sometimes. I just wish you’d said something about how you weren’t having fun.”

“I _was_ ,” Yuri protests. He’s hiccuping, and the words are hard to get out, but he pushes on. “I was having fun, I just … I didn’t sleep on the plane. I lied about that. I was tired and I didn’t want to be a buzzkill.”

“You still could have told me. I wouldn’t think less of you because you needed to rest after your flight.”

The way Otabek says it makes it sound like the most ridiculous thing anyone’s ever thought, which only makes Yuri feel more like a stupid baby for thinking it. The tears are threatening to come back. He feels pinned in place by Otabek’s disapproval, his kindness. “I’m sorry,” he says again, uselessly.

“It’s okay,” Otabek says. Now they’re both repeating themselves. Yuri wonders how much longer this will go on. Not that he minds. It’s better than the next part, the part where they pretend to try to move past it, to go on like nothing happened, with Otabek quietly resenting him and wanting him to go home already, and Yuri dying of shame until it’s time to leave for the airport.

But he can’t put it off forever, so he wipes his eyes with the collar of Otabek’s shirt again and takes a deep breath, trying to get enough air to ask, _Do you want me to go?_

“Do you feel any better?”

Yuri isn’t sure at first what Otabek means, but then his eyes land on the pill bottle. He thinks about it.

“Yeah,” he says truthfully, “a little.”

“My mom is making breakfast.” Otabek lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck with it. “If you feel like coming downstairs … if not, I can bring you a plate, if you feel like eating?”

Yuri stares. Otabek looks a little shy about offering. Is he embarrassed about introducing Yuri to his mother? He should be. Yuri would be embarrassed to introduce himself to anyone right now. He’s a fucking disgrace.

“I should take a shower first,” he says.

“Oh!” Otabek says it like he’d forgotten how disgusting Yuri is. He jumps up. “Yeah. I’ll get you a towel. I brought your suitcase up.”

Sure enough, Yuri’s leopard-print roller bag stands in the corner of the room. Yuri wonders for the first time what happened to the clothes he was wearing last night. He probably doesn’t want to know.

Otabek disappears through the bedroom door as Yuri tries to push himself up further, wincing. His head does feel better, but that’s not saying much. His stomach growls. He lifts the bottom of his borrowed tee, the only part he hasn’t got tears and snot all over, and wipes at his face again. He’s still wearing last night’s briefs.

When he lowers the shirt back down to cover his chest, Otabek has returned, towel in hand, and is standing in the doorway, staring at him with a funny look on his face. Mutely, he approaches the bed, sits down at the end of it, and hands Yuri the towel. It’s the sort of super-thick, super-soft kind that Lilia has. Yuri takes it and sets it in his lap.

“Thank you,” he says, meeting Otabek’s eyes. It’s not easy, but he does it.

Otabek frowns and looks at the towel.

“For everything,” Yuri explains. “Last night …” He bites back another _I’m sorry_. “That won’t happen again. Ever. I’m not like that.”

“I know you’re not,” Otabek says.

Yuri nods and has to drop his gaze. There’s a lump in his throat again. “Thank you … for taking care of me.”

“You would have done the same for me.”

A corner of Yuri’s mouth turns up despite himself. As if Otabek would ever do something so embarrassing and uncool. But it’s a nice thought. He pushes himself to his feet. The borrowed tee falls to just cover his ass. He makes his way unsteadily across the room, towel clasped in his hands.

“Yura?”

At the doorway, Yuri turns. Otabek is still sitting on the end of his bed, hands in his lap. He clears his throat.

“I don’t think of you as a—a dumb kid,” he says. “I never have.”

Yuri looks at him, at his serious face, his dark eyes, his honest, kissable mouth. Otabek is the coolest person Yuri knows. He’s Yuri’s best friend. He’s seen Yuri at his worst, and still wants Yuri to eat his mother’s cooking. Yuri smiles, and Otabek smiles back, bigger than Yuri’s seen, before ducking his head once more.

“Bathroom’s the first door on the left,” Otabek says.

Yuri slings the towel over his shoulder and leaves the room with a little more sway in his step.

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the first things I wanted to write when I fell in love with YOI eight months ago. Thank you to @thedeadparrot for excellent beta services, and thank you to everyone else for reading. Comments are always welcome.


End file.
